The Matriarch (31 page)

The tea tray looks bare with just glasses of tea and lemon on it, and Ginny looks in the fridge for something she can add to it. She sees the large bowl of fresh figs Al brought home from the Russo funeral. She puts several in a smaller bowl and places it on the tray. Ginny returns to the living room and places the tray on the coffee table.

“Mmmm, are those figs?” Martha cries. “What a treat!” She pulls her chair up closer to the table. Ginny has never seen such animation from the old lady before. Anna smiles in agreement and opens her mouth greedily, as her hand snakes out to the bowl and picks up a green one.

Ginny sits down next to Anna on the couch with the tray and figs easily reached by everyone. She stares at the bowl of fruit with curiosity, remembering her odd but satisfying experience early Saturday morning when she awakened and gulped down several figs, enjoying them immensely. Strange, Ginny thinks now, because figs have always been slightly repugnant to her. She remembers, too, bopping Al on his head with the rolled up
Family Circle
and has to smile.

Most of the figs in the bowl are pale green with a few purple ones peeking up at her. There’s one that’s shiny black with bright yellow spots all over it.

How beautiful they are!

With quiet wonder, their beauty becomes a delicious pain low in Ginny’s belly, and again she notices an unusual scent. It’s coming from the figs. Heavy and sweet, it makes Ginny think of an exotic desert marketplace. They shimmer there in the bowl, beckoning.
Beckoning?

Ginny sees her hand reach out for one, just as Anna and Martha do the same. They all laugh, and a voracious dining begins. Juice streams from their mouths, their hands grasping for the quickly disappearing figs. Thank goodness there’s more in the fridge, Ginny thinks happily. The three women lean forward over the bowl as if it’s a trough.

“Al on duty today?” Anna asks chattily, mopping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

Ginny nods, her mouth full.

“That boy,” Martha says, a puzzled look on her mottled face. “Sometimes he is really annoying.”

A slight smile comes to Ginny’s lips.

9:40 a.m.

Richard Bloome scowls as he peers through the screen door. It’s obvious the man is not happy to see us.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he says. “I don’t believe this.”

“Peace offering,” Frank says and thrusts a newly purchased quart of Jack Daniels at him.

I had called Richard earlier at his home, waking him. He said that he wouldn’t see us on a Sunday under
any
circumstances and had hung up on me. That left me with no choice but to look up his address.

“I know, I know,” I say. “We’re thoughtless bums, but we need you, Richard. We need your help.”

Richard glowers, his brow knotted above piercing blue eyes. He wears a white undershirt that’s about two sizes too small. A poor choice of clothing for a man of such limited upper body attributes, I think, noting the man’s flaccid arms and depleted chest. Navy-blue gym shorts and red leather sneakers with no socks complete his Sunday attire.

“Information, Richard,” I continue. “We need information from an expert like yourself. Will you please help us?”

“Sunday, for heaven’s sake,” he says, eyeing the naked bottle of whiskey in Frank’s hand. “You gentlemen are very annoying. Have you contacted the authorities about your problem?”

“We’re in the process, so to speak. But we need to take immediate action, Richard, and we surely do thank you for your expertise.” I take a small step forward smiling at him as if he’s graciously decided in our favor. He shrugs and flips the catch on the screen door. He turns and walks into the dark interior of his home, and we follow.

The place is so dim I’m afraid I’ll trip over something or walk into a wall. We follow Richard’s pear-like shape, and at last a cheery light becomes visible. We enter a sunny kitchen awash in the smell of fried bacon. My mouth is instantly flooded with saliva.

Have I eaten today? I can’t remember.

“You can set that bottle on the counter,” Richard says to Frank.

The kitchen is a fussy little place with embroidered covers for everything in sight—the toaster, a teapot, and several canisters. Bright yellow dominates the room and is intensified by the sunlight streaming in through two huge windows. The counters are yellow tile trimmed in brick red, and the floor is the same. There’s a breakfast nook in a corner that’s painted a deep cobalt blue and has bright yellow cushions on the seats.

“Colorful room,” I say. I feel the beginning of a headache; this room is too much.

“Do you like it?” Richard asks. His tone is almost courteous.

“Yeah, I do,” I say, along with murmurs of agreement from Lester and Frank.

“I enjoy color,” Richard says, clearing the table of his breakfast plate. “Thanks for the whiskey, gentlemen. Would you care for some?”

Frank and Lester accept, and Bloome pours them each a shot. We all settle into the breakfast nook, and Frank takes a fast swallow of his drink. Lester does the same.

Swell. That’s all I need, a couple of mid-day drunks on my hands.

We have a dangerous problem to deal with, and my belly tightens in frustration. Time is going by, and I have to hang on to the urgency of the situation.

‘We need—”

“Who’s the we? You or the authorities?”

Well …”

“Mr. Bloome,” Frank says, “we need to make up a large batch of synthetic testosterone. “We need to find out how to do that.”

I look at my uncle in amazement. Where does this sudden take-charge attitude come from?

Richard snorts with indignation. “Synthetic testosterone isn’t available these days.” He looks around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers and lowers his voice. “And if it were, it would be against the law for me to supply it without a doctor’s prescription. There’s absolutely no way—”

“You got any peanuts?” Lester asks Richard.

“Jesus Christ, Lester,” I say in a loud voice. “This isn’t a cocktail party!” There’s a moment of silence now as everyone, including me, is surprised by my outburst.

Richard gets up, goes to a cupboard, and removes a jar of salted peanuts. “No problem,” he says. He unscrews the lid, puts it on the table, and sits back down.

“Sorry, Lester,” I say.

He shrugs and removes a handful of peanuts from the jar.

“Richard,” I begin again, determined to get some help. “You’re the expert we need.”

“That’s right,” Frank says with a look of sincere respect on his face. “We gotta get a few facts.”

“Why? Is this regarding the women you were telling me about? Because if it is, and you people are entertaining the idea of giving them a dose of testosterone in the hope of correcting their behavior—” He shakes his head vigorously. “Rest assured, gentlemen, I will
not
be responsible for such an ill-advised, illegal act.”

“Of course not, Richard,” I say in what I hope is a calming voice. “The problem is we can’t go into detail.” I decide to go again with the pseudo official bit. “We’re not at liberty to really … discuss … the situation,” I say in a low confidential tone. “You understand?”

The little man takes a gulp from his drink and wipes his mouth with a nervous hand, face flushed. He looks like he can’t decide whether to be pissed or interested.

“Richard,” I go on, “if for some reason—a perfectly
legal
reason—you absolutely had to make up a liquid batch of synthetic testosterone, how would you do it?”

“Preposterous,” Richard says, but I can tell he’s interested, actually considering my question. “In the first place, testosterone is an androgen. It’s the hormone responsible for sexuality in the human male. It’s a natural hormone. Synthetic androgens are available, of course. Some are similar to testosterone but not identical. They’re basically steroids. I’m sure you’re aware that steroids are illegal except in medically supervised use. They can be very dangerous.”

The words that stick with me are
steroids
and
available.

“If I were to supply you with any form of these steroids,” Richard goes on, “or ‘make up a batch’ as you requested, I would most certainly lose my license.”

“These steroids,” I begin—

“And very probably go to prison,” Richard says with a grim smile at me as if he’s just scored the winning point in a hard fought debate.

“Well, no, that’s no good, of course,” I say. Lester and Frank are nodding. “Are these synthetic androgens—the steroids we’re talking about—the ones sometimes used by athletes?”

“Yes, sometimes. And many use animal androgens.”

“Animal?” Frank asks.

Richard nods. “They’re a synthetic, variant form of testosterone. They’re used primarily to increase muscle mass in cattle. But weight lifters, for example, along with a few athletes have been known to abuse them. Because of the law concerning these androgens, the people who use and supply them are actually felons. So you see, gentlemen, you’re playing with felonious fire here.” He gives us all a happy smile.

“And,” he goes on, “I don’t believe this bull you’re giving me about you folks being involved in some sort of official inquiry. Not for one minute.”

“Richard—”

“You think I’m an idiot?”

Ah, Richard—don’t toy with me.

“I’m a reputable pharmacist, and I need the real reason for your questions.” He glares at me. “Otherwise, I’ll have to make a call or two.”

I think hard—I have to come up with a reason that’s at least somewhat believable.

“I’m really embarrassed about this, Richard.” I run my fingers up into my hair and give him a sheepish grin. “It’s just a bet,” I say and laugh. No one joins me. Everyone is looking at me as if I’ve just grown another eye. “We had too many drinks the other night and started talking about the murders. We got into an argument and asked Dott about you. Shit, Richard … we’re here to settle a stupid wager. Can testosterone, or the lack of it, have an effect on the female psyche? That’s all—”

“Mr. Bloome, we’re not doing anything unlawful,” Frank says earnestly. “It’s really no more than too much whiskey and a bonehead bet—that’s about the size of it.” Frank gives a lame chuckle, and I’m grateful for his effort.

“This interview is over,” Richard Bloome says and gets to his feet.

With sheepish reluctance, we stand and follow him back through the gloom to the front door.

“I guess he didn’t buy that bet story,” Lester says as we walk back to the Ranger.

“Who would?” I say. “But we haven’t got time to worry about Richard.” We climb into the Ranger, and I turn to Lester and Frank “We hit a gym, right? To see about finding a contact for steroids. Is there a gym in Diablo, Uncle Frank?”

“There’s a gym at the east edge of town, Cassidy, on Palm Street. I don’t think there’s any more figs out there—I mean out in Diablo.” Frank says. “And nobody’s picked up any figs lately.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about that Bloome guy,” Lester says. “He could put us in big trouble, and we don’t even know if that steroid stuff will work.”

‘We’re already in big trouble, for God’s sake,” I say. “We’ve got a monster out in the pasture that keeps knocking people off.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Lester, I hope to God that we’re right about testosterone being like a poison to The Tree. If we’re not, then we’ll go to the sheriff, the
real
sheriff that is, if he’s still kicking.” Everyone is silent, and I take that to mean that we’re all on the same page.

In my mind’s eye, I see the Mama Tree still growing and powerful. I know she’s very much alive. And probably pissed as hell.

“Dante runs cattle,” Frank says in a low, sad voice. “At least he used to, back a few months.”

Wonderful. We’ll just pause now in our quest to save lives and hear the life story of good old Dante Russo.

“I remember he used some kind of steroids on those cattle of his. Swore by that stuff. And I’m pretty sure I know where he kept it.”

10:00 a.m.

After a lot of indecisive discussion with a frazzled deputy, the acting sheriff himself walks into the reception area of the county jail, known as the Diablo Detention Center. He looks upset.

“I’m sorry about your uncle, miss,” Al says to Charlotte. “I’m sorry too that you can’t see Carla just now.”